


Night Vision

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, First Meetings, First Time, Inspired by Music, Libraries, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Power Outage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8106865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: “Do you want to stay here? So boring, staring into nothing. The streets will be far more interesting, the whole city’s blacked out. Chance of a lifetime.”“Chance to what? Steal, loot?”“Of course not. The chance to see.”An alternate first meeting for John and Sherlock - in a library during a total blackout of London.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

**Night Vision**

_When the darkness takes you_

_With her hand across your face_

_Don't give in too quickly_

_Find the thing she's erased_

_Find the line, find the shape_

_Through the grain_

_Find the outline_

_Things will tell you their name_

\-           _Suzanne Vega, “Night Vision”_

“Ladies and gentlemen, the library will be closing in ten minutes. Please bring your books to the check out desk. Ten minutes, please.”

John hated closing time. Closing time meant leaving the comfortably stuffy library. It meant going back outside, to the street, to the Tube, and pitying looks at his cane and limp. It meant his insufferably beige bedsit and a tin of soup or beans heated up on a gas ring.

The library offered a brief respite from the world that John no longer recognized after being invalided home. He had spent his first weeks back in London either sitting staring at the walls of his bedsit, or stomping around the city, or glaring at anyone who offered him a seat on the Tube. He didn’t want to see anyone, he didn’t want to speak to anyone. He just wanted to immerse himself in his rage at the world that sent him off to war, and sent him back useless.

He spent hours walking around the city. He imagined the squeak and thump of his cane creating a protective ring around himself, blocking conversation and stares and questions. But even out in the street he could hear his bedsit shouting its mediocrity at him; when at home, he could hear his gun whispering to him from his desk drawer.

Then a solution presented itself. On one of his walks he found himself outside the London Library and went inside on a whim. Inside he felt the silence fall around him like a blanket, and his shoulders lost a fraction of their tension. He sat at one of the reading tables and pulled the nearest book towards him, not caring about its subject. For two glorious hours, until closing time, he reveled being in a place where talking was forbidden. The silence calmed him, made him feel less itchy inside his skin.

He began to come regularly. He would sit in the huge Reading Room, sit in the chair furthest away from anyone else, and read. It hardly mattered what the book was; he barely absorbed the words anyway. The time in the library gave him enough respite to be able to bear everything else – barely.

He knew he was just biding his time, but he didn’t know for what.

“Five minutes, please, ladies and gentlemen,” said the soft voice over the tannoy. “The library will be closing in five minutes.”

There was a summer storm gathering strength outside. John could hear the wind whipping the trees in the square, hear the windows straining against its push.  He was only one left in the Reading Room, and he worried that the librarian, wanting to get home ahead of the storm, would chivvy him out early. It was only ten minutes, but he felt mulish about any extra time in the outside world. He kept his head bent low over his book, trying to be invisible.

Suddenly he heard a giant click that seemed to echo through all of London, a deep low whirring noise, and all the lights went out.

He sat in his place, blinking into the abrupt gloom of the library. Voices began to leak out of the dark:

“Shit. What the hell?”

“Alice, you all right?”

“Yeah, what happened? Did we blow a fuse?”

“No, look, the whole square’s out. We’d better close up. Can you see?”

“Not a thing. Here, use your phone.”

“Is there anyone left? In the stacks?”

“No, I was just there ten minutes ago and no one was there. What about that chap with the cane? Did he go already?”

Without thinking, John slid sideways until he was lying on two chairs, hiding himself beneath the surface of the table.

“Anyone there?” the librarian called out. “Anyone need help? We need to close the library. Anyone?”

 _Say something, idiot_ , John thought. _They’re leaving. They’ll lock you in._

He said nothing, breathing silently through slightly parted lips.

“Everyone’s left, Alice. Come on, take my arm. Careful.”

John listened to them leaving; shuffling, stumbling, laughing at themselves. Then a great _boom_ as the main doors shut.

After the echoes had died away, John sat up again, and took a deep breath.

“Well,” he said into the darkness. “That’s done it, then.”

It almost was sacrilege to speak. The silence was profound and total, velvet and warm. After a few minutes, John’s night vision kicked in, and the book stacks rose back into place around him. There was no light filtering in through the ceiling high windows that made up the far wall, and he wondered how widespread the blackout was. He could see no glow from the horizon – the whole city must be affected.

 _Wouldn’t be able to get home anyway_ , he thought. The idea of spending the night in the perfect darkness and the perfect silence, surrounded by the ghosts of the bookshelves, was infinitely more appealing than his drab and colourless bedsit.

 _Coward_ , snapped some part of his brain, the part that kept him awake at two in the morning. _Some soldier, rather sit in the dark than face the mess your life is now. Pathetic._

John couldn’t find reason to disagree.

Time melted into the murk of the library. As he watched, the storm quieted and the clouds drifted away.  The half moon rose and made its way across the window, and the stars, usually invisible to Londoners, blinked into life across the sky. John could almost imagine himself disappearing into the grain of the bookshelves, the table, into the nap of the carpet.

 _Doesn’t matter_ , he thought. _I’m nobody._

Suddenly a sharp noise echoed through the hall, bouncing up against the far walls and ceiling. Rhythmic, precise taps. Like hard-soled shoes on the metal staircase from the stacks.

John’s heart jumped up, rushing his brain full of adrenaline. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, feeling his body warring between fight and flight. At once, the footsteps stopped, and squeaked slightly as though turning towards him.

“Hello,” a deep voice rolled out of the dark.

 _Fight it is_ , John thought as his amygdala slammed into action.

He stood, knocking his chair back and over, barking out, “Who’s there?” He grabbed at his cane, intending to use it as a defensive weapon. To his dismay, instead of grasping, his fingers glanced against it, and he heard it slide and patter to the floor. Getting it now would mean an undignified scrabble along the carpet. Even as his face flushed with embarrassment, he quickly raised his arms, his right fist down in a defensive position by his waist, his left forward and ready to strike.

“Hmmm,” said the voice. The tone didn’t sound threatened, but nor was it mocking or dismissive. “Captain or Lieutenant?”

The question was so unexpected that John felt the adrenaline shut off as if a door was slammed shut. “What?” he said.

“Were you a Captain or Lieutenant in the army? Before you were invalided out?”

The voice was deep and well-modulated, with a posh public school accent, and floated through the darkness like a thicker shadow. _I’m dreaming,_ John thought _. I fell asleep, and now I’m dreaming this_.

“How-”

“That you were invalided out is obvious from the cane you just dropped. However, you’re standing squarely on both feet, without favouring one side, so the injury was not in the immediate past – I’m guessing three to six months. When you called out to me – natural reaction, you obviously thought you were the only person in the building – your voice didn’t shake, but was spoken with a note of authority. You’re clearly accustomed to speaking like that and being obeyed, so someone with rank or some kind of position of authority. That could mean business executive, police, or military. You dropped into a self defence posture, showing that you’ve had training, so that eliminates the executive. Thank God, executives are so dull. Police officer is a possibility, but would a law-enforcer stay behind in a building that closed three hours ago? If you were security you would have a white shirt on, and your shirt is dark, I think plaid, I can’t quite tell. So, trained in self-defence, recently injured, accustomed to being obeyed. Captain or Lieutenant?”

John was suddenly aware that his mouth was hanging open. He could hear himself blinking rapidly. _If this is a dream, it’s the most amazing one I’ve ever had_.

“Captain,” he said. “That’s… that’s amazing.”

“I…” The voice hesitated for just a moment, then said, “Thank you.”

A thought occurred to John, and his heart sped up a little. “Are _you_ security?”

A derisive snort was his answer.

“So who are you? What are you doing here – they locked up – said there was no one here?”

“I was in the reading in the stairwell when the lights went out. After the staff vacated, I took advantage of the opportunity to visit the backstacks. There are items there that are not available for public viewing.”

“So you just walked into the restricted section. In the dark.”

“Well, yes.”

John paused, waiting for the inevitable question. It didn’t come.

“Well?” he said impatiently. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m still here?”

“Do _you_ know?”

All the sharp retorts John had been planning faded away. He stared at the dim figure in the dark, his jaw hanging open.

“No.”

“Then I won’t ask. Shall we go?”

“What?”

“Do you want to stay here? So boring, staring into nothing. The streets will be far more interesting, the whole city’s blacked out. Chance of a lifetime.”

“Chance to what? Steal, loot?”

“Of course not. The chance to _see_.”

The man’s voice changed its cadence suddenly, became lighter, less serious, more animated. He sounded excited, almost childlike. John found he couldn’t breathe as he felt a flow of excitement and anticipation and curiosity – all feelings that John had forgotten and thought lost. He could hear in the man’s voice other sounds like music:  the shouts of his friends at school as they played rugby; the buzz in the operating theatre for his first surgery; Murray shouting, “Over the top, Doc!” during a skirmish in Kandahar. He could hear _life_.

His muscles swelled with adrenaline, and he felt himself straighten his back, put more weight on his bad leg. _Ready_ , he thought. _Now. No more waiting_.

What came out of his mouth, however, was a croaked, “How?”

“How?”

John cleared his throat. “How do we get out?” he said, and was pleased that his voice was clearer. “They locked the door. Probably have a security guard outside.”

“Perhaps. But there’s always another way. Come on.”

He heard the man step away, towards the stacks again. “How’s your night vision?”

“Not bad,” John said as he peered into the gloom. “I can see you, a bit.”

“Over here.”

“Yeah, got it.”

As John came closer, he could make out the edges of a long sweeping coat, framing a tall and lean figure. The man’s face was pale and easy to see in the gloom, though his exact features were indiscernible. “Where are we going?” he said.

“The basement. There’s a window that faces away from St. James Square, where the skips are. It’s not alarmed. Though it’s doubtful the alarm system would be working with the power out anyway. This way. Downstairs. There’s fifteen stairs here, then jog to the right – yes – there’s no railing there – nineteen more steps. I had to get into the stacks with a ladder, I stole it from the History section. I was looking up a case from the Bow Street Runners, the last case that Fielding oversaw, 1780. It’s not in the official history books, no one wants to admit Fielding made an error. I’ve a theory that the murderer was actually a great-nephew of Fielding’s, but I have a funny feeling that won’t go over well with NSY.”

John found it easy to follow the man with his constant stream of chatter, even though he couldn’t follow what exactly the man was talking about.

 _He’s mad_ , he thought. _You’re locked in the London Library with a madman, he could murder you and leave your body in the basement. You’re an idiot not to run_.

Instead he said, “Great-nephew?”

“Of course,” said the man, then, “Here we go.”

John looked around at the dim room, with lockers against one wall and a tiny kitchen on the other side – obviously the staff break room. On the far side of the room was a small window, hard against the ceiling, about six feet up.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he said.

“What?”

“We can’t get out there!”

“Whyever not?”

“Even if I stood on a table I couldn’t reach it.”

“Not necessary. Look.” John saw the shadow of the man hunker down, saw his pale hands form a cradle. “You’re what, a hundred and seventy two – no, a hundred sixty nine centimeters, I can give you another sixty to boost, enough to get you into the casing, you open the window, crawl out, I stand on a chair and follow. Simple.”

“Window frame’s too small, I’ll get my arse stuck.”

John saw the man cock his head to the side for a moment. “Hmmm. No, you won’t.”

John laughed despite himself. _John Watson, you’re going through the bloody window, aren’t you_ , he thought. “One or the other of us will break our-”

“Shhh!” the man hissed, low and urgent. “Did you hear-”

“What?”

“Footsteps – thick rubber soles – keys – torch – security guard, coming round. Come on!”

John looked around frantically, as though a better solution would appear from behind a curtain. “I-”

“You’d prefer to be arrested? An ASBO, maybe a little B&E on your record? Come on, Captain, now!”

 _Over the top_ , John thought.

He surrendered his brain function over to his nervous system, crossed the room to the wall and placed his left foot into the man’s hands. He sucked in a few deep breaths, preparing himself, then said, “Right, go.”

He pushed off with his right foot as the man propelled him up towards the window. His fingers fumbled at the latch, trying to solve the mechanics of it by touch alone.

“Got it?”

“Not yet, just a-”

“Hurry!”

“Just a bloody minute, I-”

“You’re heavier than I estimated.”

“Ta very much, you – got it!”

He pushed the window open, heard the man grunt and heave him upwards. He scrambled forwards, using his elbows to drag himself through the casement. He rolled clear, right into a puddle of rainwater and muck, and he swore.

“Ready?” the man called from inside.

John turned himself around to face the window again, and was startled to see the man backing up to the other side of the room. “What are you-”

“No time – ready?”

“Ready when you are,” John said, his hands out and open, his muscles tensed, his toes braced against the muddy pavement.

He heard hard soled shoes run the few paces across the room and a baritone grunt of effort, and then he felt the man’s cool large hands grasp around his. He held fast and pulled, wiggling backwards. He could hear shoes scrabbling against the concrete wall, the man’s breath hissing with adrenaline, and, louder and louder, the sound of footsteps and jangling keys coming closer. He held on with his stronger left hand, and reached further down with his right until he had a fistful of wool coat, and he hauled on that, and he reached down with his left hand and grabbed another section of coat, and the man grabbed and held onto his shoulder and John fell back and the man fell on top of him and John had the breath knocked out of him and he heard the security guard shout “Oi!” and he dragged the man clear of the window. The man got to his feet first and pulled John up, pushed him and shouted, “Run!”

Then John was running like he hadn’t run since the war, since he was younger and without pain and constant rage, and he was laughing as he ran at the ridiculousness of the situation, running after a stranger after breaking out of the London Library in the middle of the night during a blackout.

John’s lungs were burning when the man slowed and looked back. “I think we’re all righ – why are you laughing?”

John was giggling and wheezing, leaning over with his hands on his knees. “That was – oh God – I can’t believe-”

He heard the man chuckle, soft and low, but it sounded unpracticed, as though the man was just remembering how to laugh after many years.

“I just hope you didn’t have your initials carved on your cane,” he said.

John looked up, confused. “My cane?”

The man gestured vaguely to John’s right side.

John felt his jaw fall open as he remembered dropping his cane in the library; his cane, still lying on the carpeted floor of the Reading Room.

“I guess I don’t need it anymore,” he said, grinning. He held out his hand to the man. “John Watson.”

John felt the man’s slightly sweaty hand grip his. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John realized that his face was near splitting in a broad grin, even though he knew the other man – Sherlock – couldn’t see him. He thought he could hear a smile in Sherlock’s voice.

“So,” he said. _What do you say in a situation like this?_ he thought. “Um… where are we? I’ve a good sense of direction normally, but I’m all turned around now.”

Sherlock turned in a slow circle, and John wondered if he was in a similar state. “Ah,” Sherlock said after a moment. “We’re not far from… this way.”

They turned and walked up a narrow street; John’s eyes ached, trying to see what was ahead. “So what do you do when you’re not researching the Bow Street Runners?”

“I’m a consulting detective.”

“Go on. With the police?”

“They consult me,” Sherlock replied, emphasizing the pronouns.

“Oh.” John puzzled over this for a moment. “Why?”

“Because they’re idiots.”

John laughed, and heard an answering gentle snort beside him. “What cases have you worked on?”

“The triple homicide in Soho last month.”

“No way – I read about that. I don’t remember hearing about a consultant though.”

“Of course not. I don’t do this for the press.”

“For what then?”

“It’s fun.”

“Fun? Murders?”

“Well, it’s … not boring. Though there are some cases that are too boring for words.”

John thought about his bedsit, the stultifying sameness of it, the dullness that had occupied his mind like a low buzz since returning to London – and how it was strangely absent now.

“Are you bored now?” he asked.

“Bored? Do you know how often there’s a city wide blackout? I-” Sherlock faltered for a moment, then said quietly, “Are _you_ bored?”

“Oh hell no.”

“…Good. Come on.”  Sherlock tugged on John’s sleeve, pulling him to the left. “I imagine you’ve never seen the city like this,” he said.

John’s eyes widened as they turned a corner into a wide open area. For a moment his brain couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

“We’re in... Trafalgar Square?”

“Yup,” Sherlock said, popping the P.

John stared around him. The normally frenetic square was almost entirely empty, the streets quiet and dark. There were no cars, the drivers of London clearly choosing staying away from the potential chaos of traffic without the discipline of traffic lights. A few brave bicyclists and pedestrians occupied the square, but it was otherwise deserted. It was as though the whole world had stopped, leaving only John and Sherlock behind.

“Amazing,” he said.

“Once in a lifetime,” Sherlock said, stepping into the street. “When was the last time you crossed Pall Mall without looking?”

John glanced up. “And when was the last time you saw a sky like that in London?” he said, pointing at the night sky.

Sherlock looked up, and stopped dead in the middle of the street. They stood together for a moment, hypnotized by the sight of thousands of stars, their light unimpeded by the artificial glow of street lamps, billboards, and car headlights.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock murmured. “I never thought… It’s beautiful.”

John suddenly became aware that they were standing in the middle of Pall Mall, staring up at the sky. “Come on,” he said, plucking at Sherlock’s sleeve. “We can’t stop here, you never know if an adventurous cabbie’s going to come along.” Sherlock didn’t move, and John wondered if he had heard him at all. “Come on, genius,” he said, and guided Sherlock across the street. Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waver from the sky.

They stood together for a long moment at the feet of Trafalgar’s lions, staring at stars and the empty square.

“It’s so quiet as well,” John said. “My ears are ringing with it.”

“Nearly everyone has a bit of tinnitus, they just don’t notice unless it’s very quiet,” Sherlock said. He seemed to have broken his reverie. “I don’t even hear the Tube, and there’s four lines running through here.”

“No buses either. Usually they’re thick on the ground here.”

“Eighteen routes.” Sherlock paused for a moment, and John could almost hear him evaluating him. It felt unnerving and fascinating at once. “You’re worried about how you can get home. You live in Bethnal Green … no, Barking. Impossible to get to without public transport. Come to mine, I’m in Westminster.”

John’s mind and mouth warred over whether to say “How do you know I live in Barking?” and “Are you mad? I don’t know you from Adam,” but somehow ended up saying, “Westminster? Nice neighbourhood.”

“Landlady owes me a favour, gives me a discount on the rent. I’ve only just moved in. I think I’ve some Glenfiddich, that’s your favourite, isn’t it? Shouldn’t take us more than half an hour to walk.”

“Lead on.”

It took well over an hour but John never noticed the passage of time. Sherlock maintained a running monologue about his cases, murders he’d solved, the history of crime in the darkened buildings they passed. (He knew he’d never think of Selfridges’ the same way again.) John found himself talking about his time in Afghanistan, strange medical cases he’d seen during his residency at St. Bart’s, and his Scottish background. He realized he was relaxed and happy to listen and to talk; he hadn’t felt this way in months, not since he came home. He was comfortable in his skin, and the release of his fury at the world was like a burden lifted.

“…That one was easy, I just needed to calculate the depth of the – oh, here we are,” Sherlock said, and pulled John towards a doorway.

“Nice area,” John said, squinting upwards. “Three stories?”

Sherlock fumbled his keys in the lock. “Yes, three flats. My landlady lives on the ground floor, I have the upper. I think there’s a second bedroom, but I haven’t looked upstairs yet.” He swung open the door, and John saw his pale hand gesturing him in. He stepped forward and promptly stumbled on the step.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, chagrin clear in his voice. “Just the one step to the landing – I’ll go first – follow me. Stairway’s on the left, stay against the wall. Careful for the coat rack – oh, never mind, Mrs. Hudson will pick that up tomorrow. Here’s the stairs – nine steps, then the landing – clockwise – now another eight – here we are.”

Sherlock hesitated at the top of the steps until John was safely at the top, then swung open the door to the flat.

As he walked into the shadowy sitting room and his eyes adjusted, John became aware primarily of … stuff. Piles of books, papers, and boxes wavered into sight as his eyes adjusted to the room. A large bat seemed to be frozen and floating over to his left. He moved towards it to investigate, felt his knee bump into something, and heard the distinctive sound of a stack of magazines sliding to the floor.

“Sorry-”

“Sorry – a bit of a mess.”

“Not to worry,” John said. “You did say you’d just moved in… when?”

“Erm, three weeks ago.”

“…Ah.” He looked around, hoping that his night vision would improve enough to navigate himself through the crowded sitting room. “Um, have you a sofa? Place to sit?”

“To your right,” came Sherlock’s voice from John’s left, as though in a separate room.

“I’m a little afraid to move, to be frank.”

“Stay there, I’m bringing your whisky. You did say Glenfiddich?”

“No, I didn’t say, but that’s still right.”

He heard Sherlock coming back towards him, the click of ice in a glass. “Here.”

John raised his hand but misjudged where Sherlock was and reached into empty space.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, and then, “Here,” and John felt Sherlock’s fingers grasp his and wrap them around cool glass. Sherlock’s hand did not move away, and John heard him take a sharp intake of breath.

“You’re bisexual,” Sherlock said.

John felt all the air slide out of his lungs, and the blood from his face.

Sherlock began speaking rapidly, like rushing water. “You’re bisexual, but you primarily chose female partners. You have male sexual partners less than 10% of the time, and only once as a longer term relationship. You haven’t been with a man since the army – actually haven’t been with a woman either but you were with several women on your last leave. The man in the army was your commanding officer, and you broke it off because, because, because…”

Sherlock’s voice stuttered to a halt, but he didn’t remove his hand from John’s glass. “Sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t – That was something I didn’t mean to-”

“How do you know?” John gasped out. “How can you possibly – the army, my rank, and, and, Glenfiddich, and that I’m – how do you _know_?”

“Because I observe,” Sherlock said, intense and low, and John felt his breath on his cheek. “Because I _see_ you.”

John was never sure what happened to his glass, barely aware of the thump as it hit the carpeted floor. All he was aware of was suddenly kissing Sherlock, lips cool and sweet under his, and his arms around him, pulling him close. He was dimly aware of the buzz in his ears and the eerie quiet of London without power, then the sound of his heart thudding louder and louder became paramount, then that was drowned out by Sherlock’s low moan. John’s hand, damp with condensation from the glass, slid to Sherlock’s neck and up into his hair. The feel of soft curls under and between his fingers added to the sensory overload. He pulled Sherlock closer, reaching his free hand under the heavy tweed coat to the small of Sherlock’s back, flexing his fingers against the silky shirt.

Time faded into the velvet dark that wrapped itself around them. In the back of his mind, John found himself again feeling that the city, the whole world, had vanished into the night, leaving only the two of them alone together, holding each other so closely it hurt.

 _His lips are chapped_ , John thought as the kiss deepened, and this thought grounded him a bit.  He had started to believe that he had really fallen asleep in the library, that this was an extraordinarily detailed and sensual and wonderful dream. He ran the tip of his tongue along the tiny ridge of skin on Sherlock’s bottom lip, then sucked it into his mouth as Sherlock sighed. _He’s real_ , John thought, as he left a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses down Sherlock’s endless neck. _He’s real, and this is real, and this is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me._

“Take me to bed, Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured against the pulsebeat in Sherlock’s jugular. “Take me to your bed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped. He pulled John back up to his mouth and kissed him hungrily and hard. “Yes. Come to my bed. Please.”

John could feel Sherlock’s erection hardening against his hip, could feel his own increasing desperation to lie down with Sherlock, to strip his clothes off and explore him. He kissed back with equal and growing desire for a long moment, until his aroused brain gradually realized something was missing.

“Sherlock,” he whispered against his mouth, “you have to show me. Your bed. I don’t know where your bedroom is.”

A minute pause, then a snort of laughter from Sherlock. “Oh yeah,” he said, and pulled John down a hallway.

They made it into the bedroom after a few minor delays of kissing, a glorious grope of Sherlock’s arse, and only one picture knocked off the wall when John pushed Sherlock’s coat off in the hallway. Sherlock walked John backwards into the bedroom, and John had a weird sense of floating, of careening through space, and it felt deliciously out of control. Sherlock’s mouth and hands were hard and urgent, but he stopped John before he fell over the bed. John sat abruptly, and pulled at Sherlock’s lapels to bring him down after him. Sherlock tumbled over him ( _oh God, it’s like he weighs nothing at all_ ), landing with a grunt of air into John’s mouth. John fumbled down to grab Sherlock’s hips and pushed up against him.

“Is this real?” he asked Sherlock, licking and sucking along his jaw, needing to hear it, barely believing his own senses any more.

“Yes – I hope so – God, John-”

“So good, am I dreaming-”

“Best dream I’ve had,” Sherlock said, arching himself away from John to pull his shirt up. John gasped as Sherlock squeezed his nipples.

“There, pinch, you’re awake.”

John felt a growl start deep in his chest and radiate upwards to his throat and downwards to his aching groin. “Pinch, I’ll show you a pinch, you amazing, sexy thing-” He wound a leg around Sherlock and flipped them over until they were lying side by side. He scrabbled at Sherlock’s shirt buttons ( _tiny buttons, slippery, goddammit_ ), their hands clashing together as Sherlock did the same to his. After an age he was finally able to pull open Sherlock’s shirt and ran his hands greedily over his chest. God, he was thin, whip thin, but there was a layer of muscle underneath. John brushed his fingertips up Sherlock’s sides, counting the ribs as Sherlock squirmed, then found and tweaked his nipples.

“There, now you’re not dreaming either.”

Sherlock groaned, bone rattling deep, his spine curving up towards John’s searching hands. “Oh God John, more, more-”

“Let me touch you, please Sherlock, let me-”

But his hands were already skimming down to Sherlock’s waist, seeking the clasp and button of his trousers, easing the zip carefully over the hard bulge in his pants. Another moment of fumbling and then Sherlock’s cock was pressing into his palm, already hard and leaking. Sherlock stiffened and whimpered, and John heard the soft sound of Sherlock’s head tossing against the bedspread.

“That feel good?” he murmured against Sherlock’s neck. He pressed himself along Sherlock’s side, unable to prevent himself from rubbing up against his hip. “God,” he said, hearing his own voice break and shudder. “This is – this is-”

With a strangled cry, Sherlock twisted until he was facing John, pushing his hand past John’s to the fly of his jeans. John only had time to gasp before Sherlock had his cock in his hand, long delicate fingers wrapped around him, perfectly tight. Sherlock’s free arm wrapped around John’s torso and pulled them together chest to chest, mouth to mouth, their hands grazing each other as they set a rhythm.

 _Oh God, this is the most insane – he’s so – feels so_ , John thought, the cognizant part of his brain shorting out and giving way to the flood of testosterone and adrenaline. Then all the clamour in his head went suddenly quiet, leaving only a clear voice saying _Oh God I’m coming_.

“Oh God I’m coming,” he said, and the world went white as he spurted into Sherlock’s fist. Off in the distance he heard Sherlock’s voice saying, “Yes, yes, yes,” deeper and deeper, and then he felt Sherlock’s semen gushing over his wrist and belly.

John listened for a few moments to the symphony of his own pounding heart and Sherlock’s gasping breaths directly into his ear. “Jesus,” he said, just to make sure he could still speak. “Jesus.” He moved his head and felt a brush of cloth against his cheek. A gust of laughter burst out of him, starting low in his belly and spreading through his body. “We didn’t even get our clothes off.”

“I suppose not,” Sherlock said, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat and carefully released John’s cock. “We were a bit – hasty.”

“S’alright,” John said. He pulled himself up a bit and sought Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him sloppily. “That was incredible,” he mumbled against Sherlock’s lips. All he wanted now was a long snog, to hold on to this incredible moment as long as he could.

After a couple of minutes, however, he felt Sherlock hesitate and retreat slightly. “Okay?” he said, still half dazed. _He wants to clean up_ , he thought muzzily. _Not a bad idea_.

But instead Sherlock pulled back and looked at him intently. John looked back, feeling increasingly uneasy. He was being analyzed, studied. He tried to read Sherlock’s expression through the gloom ( _what colour were his eyes anyway?_ ).

“John,” Sherlock said at last, and John could hear doubt and hesitation in his voice. “Don’t you – do you not want to – to go?”

John felt a cold wave wash through him. He felt terribly exposed and embarrassed suddenly, his shirt and flies open, his softening cock spattered in drying come. _I’ve misread this, I’ve misread this terribly, oh God,_ he thought.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling the blood rush back into his face. “I didn’t – I’ll go.”

He wondered how quickly he could zip up and get out, hide his mortification. He began to roll away from Sherlock and was startled when he felt Sherlock’s hand on his arm, gripping hard, pulling him back.

“No, wait. I just – I don’t underst – I haven’t-”

John turned back, confused at Sherlock’s tangled words, unsure where there was confidence before. He licked his lips, knowing the question to ask and half afraid of the answer. “Do you want me to go?”

Sherlock didn’t respond for a moment, and John’s heart raced. _Please please please please_.

“No,” Sherlock said, the single word huffed out as though Sherlock had been holding his breath. “I just…” Sherlock took a deep breath and said quietly, “I don’t do this very often.”

Relief flooded through John so quickly that he felt dizzy. “What, you don’t regularly pull strange men at the London Library during a city wide blackout?”

“Well, no,” Sherlock said, and John could hear the smile in his voice. He relaxed a bit more.

“You mean pulling in general.”

“I mean sex in general.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“My life is not… conducive to relationships.”

John felt his heart speed up again. In a flash he knew how much he wanted more of Sherlock, how he wanted to talk to him more than anyone in the world, how just a few hours had addicted him to this strange, odd, astonishing man.

 _Walk carefully, Watson_ , he thought. _There’s much to lose, and so much to gain here_.

“How long has it been?” he said softly.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. John felt the bed shake slightly as Sherlock waved his hand in the air. “Years. Uni.”

“Good Lord,” John said. “And can I guess that it’s been a long time because… that time in Uni wasn’t… a good experience?”

Sherlock turned his head towards him on the pillow. “No. It wasn’t.”

John dared to lay down again, rest his head next to Sherlock’s. “What happened?”

“They… didn’t stay.”

“Not even for a bit? Talk afterwards? Nothing?”

“Sometimes they said thanks.”

“Ah.”

John kept his voice gentle, but inside he was fuming at every bastard that had wounded Sherlock in his youth, wounded him badly enough to be surprised that someone would want to stay after sex. He felt a rush of protectiveness, of possessiveness, and he raised his hand and touched Sherlock’s lips softly. _I’d fight for him,_ he thought. _I’ve only known him a few hours, and I know already I’d fight for him. Stand between him and danger, between him and hurt_.

John felt an impossible feeling rising up from his heart and his gut, irrational and huge. He couldn’t name it yet, but he could show it.

“I want to stay, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered. He felt as though his words were floating up into the darkness of the room. “I want to stay, and kiss you some more, and take off our clothes this time, and explore you.” He felt Sherlock’s mouth drop open slightly, and he ran the tip of his finger just inside his lower lip, smoothing the warm wet of his mouth. “Do you want that? Do you want me to stay? I’ll go if you want, but-”

“Yes,” Sherlock blurted, and before John could panic, he said, “I mean, stay. I want you to.”

“Good,” John said, and pulled Sherlock into a deep kiss. He tried to express everything he was feeling, all his desire for Sherlock, this impossible feeling. Sherlock responded to the kiss, but John could still feel his hesitation and wariness. Gradually the tension ebbed away, and with a small sigh, Sherlock deepened the kiss. John couldn’t help imagining – hoping – that Sherlock was also trying to reflect his own state of mind.

He kissed a line across a sharp cheekbone and then along his jawline. His hands wandered up to comb through Sherlock’s hair, marvelling at the soft curls. “Your hair – God, I can’t wait to see you properly. What colour is your hair?”

“Dark, almost – oh God, keep doing that, please – black. It goes a bit auburn in the sun.”

“Fucking gorgeous, you are.”

John licked at the hollow under his ear and Sherlock made a noise that began as a whine and ended in, “Nnnooo.”

“Hm?” John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat racing under his mouth.

“Not gorgeous, I’m afraid. You can’t see me, haven’t seen me, not properly.  I’ve been told I’m a bit… odd-looking.”

John’s heart bled a little at the thought of Sherlock being told that, and him believing it. He sat up, straddling Sherlock’s hips and cupping his face in his hands. “Nonsense,” John said, his voice quiet and serious. “Sherlock, I’ve only known you a few hours, and I haven’t really seen you yet, but I don’t need to see to know that you’re beautiful.”

He felt Sherlock’s jaw fall open under his hands. John leaned over and kissed him, softly, sweetly, then sat up and ran his hands down Sherlock’s chest, pushing open his shirt.

“Show me,” he said. “Show me how beautiful you are.”

Together they pulled Sherlock’s jacket and shirt off, then Sherlock pulled at the hem of John’s shirt until John pulled it up and over his head. They spent long moments exploring each other’s torsos, fingertips skimming over muscle and hair and skin. When Sherlock’s hands skittered to a stop over John’s shoulder, John realized that he had, for the first time in months, completely forgotten about his injury.

“You were shot,” Sherlock said; a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes. Otherwise I’d still be there, I suppose.”

Delicate fingers traced the perimeter of the scar. “May I…?”

“Yes. Anything,” he said. “Anything you want.”

For a long time after his injury, John had avoided looked at himself shirtless in the mirror. Now that the wound had healed somewhat, the deep shame he felt when he looked at it was now just a dull ache. The knowledge that his body was forever marked with a permanent reminder of the bullet that sent him home was something that he tried not to think about.

Oh, but now, now there was this incredible, fascinating person who seemed to be fascinated in turn by the web of marred tissue. Sherlock’s touch vacillated between barely there touches and bold, firm sweeps with the pad of his thumb.

“It’s amazing,” Sherlock breathed. “It’s so – John, you are – I-”

He abruptly flipped John over onto his back and kissed the scar with a wet, open mouth. John gasped as Sherlock continued his inspection using his lips and tongue. It felt alien and strange, especially on the parts where the nerves had died and he had no topical feeling anymore, but it was also unbelievably erotic. It was a part of himself that he had felt deep anger and shame about, and now Sherlock was worshiping it with his hands and mouth. Soon he was moaning and humping up into space. This seemed to only encourage Sherlock and he redoubled his explorations. John was hardening again, after coming not twenty minutes earlier, but he felt seventeen again, insatiable, hungry for more. He palmed his cock, just to relieve the pressure a bit.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, and John could feel his slight smile against his shoulder. Then he slid sinuously down John’s body and pulled his cock into the wet warmth of his mouth.

John’s vocabulary was suddenly reduced to “Oh” and “Fuck” alone. Sherlock’s mouth and tongue seemed to dance over his cock, alternating between sloppy open kisses and delicate licks over all his sensitive areas. John was suddenly aware that he was likely to come again in two minutes flat if he didn’t take preventative action. He pulled Sherlock away and up.

“John?”

“You’re brilliant, that felt so good, but I don’t want to come yet, not yet, I want to…” But John’s brain could put the words together about what he wanted, so he kissed Sherlock instead.

The kiss began hot and hard, but transformed into something very different, different from when they first stumbled into the bedroom. The urgent leaping flame of fire had passed and given way to burning coals – calmer, more patient and sensual, but equally intense. John felt perfectly calm and perfectly aroused at once.

John’s exploring fingers discovered that Sherlock had sensitive nipples, and he teased and plucked at them until Sherlock was writhing. Sherlock’s hands alternated between cupping John’s head between his hands and curving around the swell of his biceps.

John let his hand dance down Sherlock’s body, and traced along the edge of his waistband. “Can we get rid of these now?”

“You too?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Sherlock tilted his hips up and skimmed off his trousers and pants at once, then helped John with his heavier, bulkier jeans. John let his hands guide him across a sharp hipbone, down a long, slim thigh, then slowly up, up and gently took Sherlock’s cock into his hand again. He too was already hard, and he pushed himself into John’s palm. With the urgency of their first orgasm passed, John could now take time to explore the contours of Sherlock’s cock – long, slim, slightly curved, and soft, soft skin. It had been a while since he had held an erect penis other than his own, but all his past experiences faded away at the touch of this cock that fit perfectly into his hand.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

“Oh God, John. Please.”

John smiled as he gave Sherlock one last, deep kiss, sucking his lower lip into his mouth before releasing it with a pop. Tiny kisses marked his path down Sherlock’s body until he was lying between his legs. He licked the tip of Sherlock’s cock, tasting brine, and used his broadened tongue to lick him from his balls to his frenulum. Sherlock shuddered underneath him, and John knew immediately that he would never tire of making him do that. He lifted Sherlock’s long legs to rest over his shoulders, tilting his hips up higher.

“You taste so good,” he murmured against the soft fur of Sherlock’s balls, letting his voice vibrate and buzz against the sensitive skin. He mouthed at them, laid kisses at the juncture of thigh and groin, and rejoiced in the sound of Sherlock’s helpless moans above him. Sherlock was now so hard he had to pull his cock away from his belly to angle it into his mouth. He kept his mouth wet and soft as the hardness of Sherlock’s cock nudged against his hard palate. He sucked his own finger into his mouth alongside Sherlock’s penis, wetting it well with saliva, and pressed the tip of his finger gently against Sherlock’s hole, feeling it twitch and dilate.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and strained.

“Too much?”

“No. Nonono. I just – will you – I want,” Sherlock said, then growled with frustration. “John, fuck me.”

John froze.

“Please,” Sherlock said, like a child remembering his manners.

John’s heart swelled some more. “Oh yes, okay. Do you really want-”

“Yes. Please.”

John felt his cock flex, straining under the surge of desire that raced through him.  “Um. Have you, before?”

“Yes, but not for a long time.”

“Uni?”

“Mmm. Don’t stop, please.”

“Well, I just – I need – do you have anything?”

John heard a sharp intake of breath, and felt his heart plummet. _Of course_ , he thought, _if he hasn’t had sex for a long time, he probably doesn’t have any…_

“Do you have one?” Sherlock said.

“What, in my wallet? Not since I was in school.”

“Aren’t you army men supposed to be ready for anything?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp; John knew it was lust transformed into irritation but he felt his hackles rise anyway. “Be prepared, and all that?”

“That’s the Boy Scouts, you berk.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then they both broke into giggles. John fell back on the bed, one hand on his aching stomach and the other on his still-hard cock. Laughter and arousal mixing freely together made him feel drunk and absurdly happy.

Sherlock’s deep chuckle hitched to quietness, and John felt his fingers tracing his mouth.

“You were tested regularly in the army, yes?”

“Yeah. Every three months.”

“Clean?”

“Every time. And I haven’t - there’s been nothing since I got back.”

“And I - I have an overly protective and nosey brother who insists on my getting tested quarterly. And I haven’t been with anyone since Uni.”

“Oh,” John said. He knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock was telling the truth.

“I think we’re okay.”

“...Okay.”

“And I think - I think that we…” Sherlock stopped, as if unable to put the words together.

“Yeah,” John said, turning to face him. “I think we are.” He placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, feeling him smile.

“All right. Good.”

“Um, one thing though - still need lube. Do you have any?”

John could feel Sherlock’s face fall beneath his hand. “Oh,” Sherlock sighed. Then a sharp intake of breath, and, “Oh!” and Sherlock wrenched himself away from John and off the bed. John heard a door being thrown open just next to the bed, the slide of a drawer, and the rattle of bottles, overlaid with Sherlock whispering, “Where is it, I know it was here, God damn – ah!”

John found himself grinning hugely as Sherlock slammed back into the room. Long fingers traced along the edge of the bed, then found his arm, and followed down to his hand. A large square bottle was pressed into his palm.

“Mineral oil – okay?” Sherlock said.

“More than okay,” John smiled, and pulled at those long fingers until Sherlock was lying beside him again. He kissed Sherlock again, gentle, soft kisses until he felt Sherlock relax. “You’re so amazing – I can’t believe…”

“What, John?”

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, breathing his air. “That I’m here. That this is real.”

“We’re here. This is real. Now, please. I want you.”

“Why me, though?” John said helplessly. “You’re so clever, and beautiful, and I’m – I’m nothing special. Why?”

“No, John, no. You – you’re the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met, John Watson.”

Then they were kissing, deep and hard, arms wrapped tightly around each other. John felt the last of his self-pity ebb away in the embrace of this incredible man.

“Okay,” John said as they broke apart, and was grateful that Sherlock didn’t comment on the watery edge to his voice. “I need to… get you ready.”

In reply, Sherlock took back the bottle of mineral oil and carefully poured oil over John’s fingers. “You’ve got lovely hands, John. You’re a doctor as well?”

“How – yes, you wonderful thing.” John smiled. “Now,” he pulled Sherlock’s leg up against his hip, “tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

John slowly pushed his middle finger against Sherlock’s hole as he mouthed along Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock sighed deeply and pushed down against John’s hand until his knuckle pushed past the grip of the ring of muscle. Inside he was hot and smooth, and John closed his eyes, thinking about his cock sinking into that heat.

Gradually, John opened him up, constantly kissing his mouth and neck and whispering a constant stream of praise. Soon Sherlock was panting and arching his back.

“Now,” Sherlock gasped.

John’s hands shook as he poured more oil over his aching cock, as Sherlock arranged a pillow under his hips. He dropped one more kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, just a brush of lips, then wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s hips, his thumbs resting in the curve of his groin. He lined himself up and pushed.

The tightness made John gasp, and he heard a twin gasp from Sherlock. “All right?”

“Yeah – keep going-”

So John did, steady and firm, as he felt Sherlock’s body give around him, letting him in. Finally he felt his body flush against Sherlock’s. He concentrated on his breathing, and stroked Sherlock’s legs and stomach soothingly. “I wish I could see your face,” he breathed, desire constricting his lungs and voice. “You must look so beautiful right now.”

Sherlock’s hands came up, seeking the lines of John’s face. “You can move now,” he said.

John moved in tiny, incremental thrusts, and as he felt Sherlock’s body gradually relax around him he dared to push harder and deeper. Sherlock’s breath became sharp grunts as the breath was pushed out of him by the weight of John’s body. Sherlock’s hands never moved from his face, so John leaned on his right arm and wrapped his left hand around Sherlock’s stiff cock.

“So beautiful,” he said, feeling his own orgasm gathering in his hips and guts and balls. He changed his angle slightly and knew he had hit Sherlock’s prostate when he jerked and shuddered.

“Again, again, please – oh!”

John began a hard, dirty rhythm, hitting the right spot over and over again. He wiped the dripping precome over the crown of Sherlock’s cock and down to the root, and used the added slick to rub Sherlock faster, harder. “Come for me, Sherlock, you beautiful, amazing-”

He felt Sherlock’s orgasm first, the muscles fluttering and clenching around his cock, and then Sherlock groaned bone-rattlingly deep as semen shot over his belly and chest.

“Yes – yes – yes,” John said, and then his field of vision clouded over with stars, lighting up the room.

When he could think again, Sherlock was kissing him as he fell to lie by Sherlock’s side. They exchanged small, intimate kisses as their breathing evened out. John felt sleep pressing in on him, and he nestled into Sherlock’s body, tucking his face into Sherlock’s neck.

“Stay?” Sherlock murmured.

“Yeah,” John said as he slid into the deeper dark of sleep.

***

John wasn’t sure if it was minutes or hours later, but he was woken by a loud whirring sound, and the sudden glare of light.

He sat up, and saw out the window the streetlights coming on one by one. It was not daylight yet, but the dull gray of pre-dawn.

Sherlock groaned next to him, and John turned to look at him. The bedside lamp had turned on with the power, glaringly bright, and Sherlock winced at it and snapped it off.

“No,” John said.

He reached over Sherlock and turned the light on again. He shifted until he was straddling Sherlock’s thighs, and looked down.

Sherlock’s black, curly hair was flattened on one side. He had pillow wrinkles across one cheek. He gazed up at John, the colour of his eyes unearthly and unnameable, with a slight crease of worry between his brows.

John reached up and traced the pillow wrinkles.

“Now I can see you.” And he leaned closer to whisper into Sherlock’s ear the words that seemed so impossible in the dark.

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> The London Library is real - I found this video and imagined them in their little hiding places: https://vimeo.com/31024553  
> However, the membership is exorbitant and it's unlikely John could have afforded it... just go with it.
> 
> Also I don't know if a total blackout like this is possible on the London power grid... again, just go with it.
> 
> Much gratitude and thanks to the wonderful ladies of the Fanfic Writer's Retreat 2016, who got me unstuck at the halfway point.


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